


A Literary Luncheon

by en_verite



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Case Fic, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 11:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15048110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/en_verite/pseuds/en_verite
Summary: The story of the very first meeting of Hercule Poirot and Ariadne Oliver, the famous detective novelist. Naturally, a mystery is underway...





	A Literary Luncheon

_Jack Sprat could eat no fat._  
_His wife could eat no lean._  
_And so between them both, you see,_  
_They licked the platter clean._

* * * * *

‘George– a taxi, _s’il vous plaît._ I leave in a few moments.’

Hercule Poirot stood before the hall mirror. A small, dandified figure in formal apparel stared back at him, his egg-shaped head tilted in serious scrutiny of the symmetrical accuracy of his bow tie. He tugged gently at the ends and looked down upon the books on the little hall table before him.

Two modern detective novels lay there. The highly-coloured jackets proclaimed them to be titled _The Lotus Murder_ and _The Affair of the Second Goldfish_ , by Ariadne Oliver. Poirot’s own sleek black notebook lay beneath them, containing notes for his speech to be given at this afternoon’s luncheon.

The luncheon was to be held in honour of this celebrated mystery writer, Mrs Oliver. Poirot had never met the lady, but a few years ago he had received a letter from her after having solved a particularly tricky and well-publicised murder case. She was warm and congratulatory. Then her letter devolved into a difficult-to-follow diatribe about someone named Sven Hjerson and how this man would have solved the case in a different manner, employing a small syringe, a marble bust of Apollo, a pair of muddy boots stolen from a local policeman, and a supply of lingonberry jam.

Poirot remained baffled until he recognised the letter-writer’s name. Now that he had finally read a few of the authoress’s works, preparatory for his luncheon speech, he felt that he had a still firmer grasp on the meaning of the letter. What fantastical stories the lady wrote!

The manservant George reappeared at the door. ‘The taxi is waiting, sir.’

 _‘Merci._ I shall return before four o’clock.’ 

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, sir,’ said George deferentially, as he watched Poirot gather the books from the table, ‘I wouldn’t have thought that speeches to the Detection Club were quite in your line.’ 

He looked doubtfully at the novels. George was of an unimaginative turn of mind.

‘It is a new experience,’ said Poirot with some complacency. ‘The writing of the stories of deduction has many interesting points. There is much that is ridiculous and sensational, truly. But I interest myself. The president himself, M. Gainsbrooke, requested my presence today. I should not have liked to disappoint him.’

Poirot did not mention that his chief interest was the prospect of a free meal at that exclusive and _dernier cri_ restaurant, The Thousand Lanterns.

* * * * * 

Ruben Gainsbrooke sighed. He looked at his watch again. Half past, and the room still wasn’t ready for them. These literary luncheons always seemed to involve some hitch...

Gainsbrooke was a round, rubicund gentleman with well-greyed hair and a forceful personality. He seemed to fill any room in which he appeared with his singular presence. It was some decades ago that he was at the height of his own literary fame in the detective genre. His Colonel Duncan stories were still held in reverence by crime novel enthusiasts. 

It had seemed a good idea to create the Detection Club, he thought glumly. The annual dinners were really first-rate. Dinners were the point of any club worth having, after all. But you never knew where you were with luncheons! 

He sighed again and looked about him. The tastefully-lighted foyer of The Thousand Lanterns was already beginning to teem with what looked suspiciously like detective novel fanatics. He knew that eager gaze, the book-clutching, the autograph notebook burning a hole in the pocket. Exclusive restaurant, indeed! 

The establishment had gotten the time of the club’s event wrong. Now, instead of keeping the book-clutchers at bay until the regularly scheduled time after the repast, they were poking in early. 

Gainsbrooke had engaged in lively debate with the manager. He had been persuasive. Authors, he said, must have their privacy. Admirers and autographs were well and good, but luncheon must come first. 

But it had been in vain. Mr Freeman, proprietor of The Thousand Lanterns, admitted the scheduling error. But he was unwilling to turn away prospective diners. The lure of publicity, perhaps, was overriding his usual preference of limited and privileged access. Nothing could be done about the error but to wait for the room. That, at any rate, would be private. But until then...

At least Mrs Oliver would make it this time, thought Gainsbrooke. He recalled, with a shudder, the last time a special luncheon was scheduled in Mrs Oliver’s honour. The event had completely slipped her mind and she had not put in an appearance. 

But he had reassurance this time. A waiter had interrupted his eloquence with Mr Freeman to call him to the telephone. It had been Mrs Oliver herself. She reassured him that she had not forgotten and would be arriving momentarily. 

‘If anyone should want to find me,’ she had said firmly, ‘I’ll be wearing head-to-toe black.’ And with that she had rung off. 

Well, he had not seen Mrs Oliver yet. But that was not his concern at the moment. The handful of Detection Club members he observed striding to and fro were attempting to hide expressions of annoyance. And he himself was getting hungry. At very least, he could use a drink.

* * * * * 

Miss Leona Holt looked about her with a smile. She patted her sleek coiffure and drew her shoulders back, examining the effect in one of the many mirrors lining the restaurant walls. There was no perturbation about crime novel enthusiasts in _her_ mind. It was her time to shine. Some of these readers milling about, she thought, must have read her latest magazine serial. Soon the autograph books would come out. It was so rewarding.

One person, in particular, caught Leona Holt’s eye– a small man, dark and foreign-looking. He had just arrived and was now conversing with Mr Gainsbrooke on the other side of the room. What a moustache he had, she thought with distaste. On the other hand, he seemed to be a friend of Gainsbrooke, and therefore worth striking up an acquaintance. Dear Gainsbrooke. It was nice, in the face of all of these petty and mean-spirited rumours, to have the president of the Club on one’s side. He had accepted three invitations to tea at her palatial flat this year alone–

The little man with the moustaches was taking leave of Mr Gainsbrooke now, and his eyes swept the room. Finally they landed on Miss Holt. He strode toward her with a purposeful air. No doubt, she thought, he wants me to sign those books in his hands. A pleasant segue into conversation. She wondered dubiously how well he spoke English.

He stopped before her and offered a little bow. She adopted a condescending smile. Then the man said:

‘Do I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Mrs Ariadne Oliver?’

* * * * * 

Never had Hercule Poirot seen a woman’s face sour so quickly.

‘No, you do not,’ she snapped. ‘ _I_ am Miss Leona Holt.’

She said it with the air of someone who expected recognition of the name.

‘I am enchanted to make your acquaintance,’ said Poirot. ‘I beg your pardon. M. Gainsbrooke informed me that Mme Oliver would be dressed all in black. You are the only lady I have seen here who meets that description.’ 

Miss Holt looked down at the Ariadne Oliver novels in Poirot’s hands and scowled. Just another crime reader, as likely as not, and not a friend of Mr Gainsbrooke after all. But she had better be civil, just in case. 

‘I suppose you were autograph-hunting,’ she said with another forced smile, shifting her dainty black evening bag a little. 

Poirot raised his eyebrows. 

‘Not precisely, no. But I was hoping to have a few words with the lady. I am Hercule Poirot.’ 

Miss Holt, in her turn, did not miss the expectation of recognition inherent in that tone of voice. The fog seemed to clear. 

‘Oh, of _course,’_ she said smoothly. ‘I have read several of your books.’ 

She excused herself and glided in the direction of an incoming crowd of detective fiction enthusiasts. Poirot stared after her. 

_‘Nom d’un nom d’un nom!’_ he said. 

* * * * * 

The main foyer of The Thousand Lanterns was filling up quickly. Most members of the Detection Club seemed resigned to the fact that their room was unforthcoming and were chatting with admirers or friends.

Hercule Poirot betook himself down a corridor of the restaurant, past the cloakroom and a couple of private dining rooms. The crowds were not so dense here. He had just begun to speculate which of the rooms was meant for the literary luncheon when a loud stage whisper arrested his attention.

‘Monsieur Poirot!’ it said gaily.

He turned quickly. A handsome, middle-aged woman of generous proportions was bearing down upon him. Taking his elbow, she steered him into an abandoned corridor. Poirot regarded the orange patterned dress, the patent leather slippers, the frivolous hat of dark red suede perched at an unfashionable angle atop a mass of unruly greying hair.

‘I _am_ glad to meet you. It was so kind of you to agree to do the speech for our luncheon. I’d have made a frightful mess of it myself. Writing is so different from oratory.’

‘I take it,’ said Poirot with a smile, ‘that you are Mrs Oliver, then?’

‘Yes, indeed– awful that the room isn’t ready yet, isn’t it? I’m not really at my best at these convivial meet-and-greets. One never knows what to say to people with autograph books.’

Mrs Oliver reached into a bulging, oversized handbag and extracted a half-eaten apple, which she bit into absently.

After a few minutes’ exchange of pleasantries, Hercule Poirot said:

‘I spoke with M. Gainsbrooke, the president of your club. He said that you would be wearing head-to-toe black.’ 

Mrs Oliver laughed a deep, booming laugh. 

‘Oh, that was just a ruse. Ruben Gainsbrooke is the only author that readers ever seem to recognise in person. Is it his own fame of authorship? His natural distinction? Or the gossip papers in which he and his family sometimes appear– it’s difficult to say. Probably all three. But readers are forever coming up to him at these events asking him to identify other authors for them. When I first arrived and saw that something had gone wrong with the scheduling, I nipped next door to The Nesting Wren, phoned here, and told Mr. Gainsbrooke I was on my way and that I was wearing all black. That way I could still turn up in decent time and also keep up some level of incognito before the luncheon began.’ 

Mrs Oliver looked pleased with herself. Hercule Poirot, for his part, doubted the effectiveness of the scheme. It would only take one reader to ask one of the other writers to point out Mrs Oliver, and her cover would be blown. He gallantly forbore to mention this, however.

‘ _Alors,_ your subterfuge, it did not endear me to one of your fellow authors,’ he said. ‘I approached the only lady in black I could find, believing her to be you, and she was not pleased. A Mlle Leona Holt.’ 

A storm cloud descended upon Mrs Oliver’s expressive features.

‘Miss Holt,’ she said savagely, ‘is a dreadful woman. Absolutely poisonous.’

She tossed her apple core sadly into a nearby wastepaper basket.

‘Do you know, last autumn she stole one of my very best story ideas and passed it off as her own. I was going to use it for Sven Hjerson, a kind of double-bluff with an ex-soldier and a confectioner’s assistant and a slightly misshapen holster. Every detail of the plot turned up in one of her magazine serials. And I’m not the only writer she’s stolen from. She has no originality and no scruples at all. The only thing she cares about is notoriety.’

‘Indeed, madame?’

‘I daresay you don’t want to hear all that,’ said Mrs Oliver apologetically. ‘I’m being a downer, I know. These luncheons–’

‘ _Au contraire,_ madame, you awaken my professional interest.’

The authoress waved a despairing hand. ‘Plagiarism is one thing. If a thing is down in writing, you can take action. But writers discuss their ideas and plans with other writers– gatherings like this one are always full of shop talk. If there’s no written proof, what can be done? It’s an unbeatable crime– pure gossip. One simply has to move on.’

The phrase ‘unbeatable crime’ worked strangely upon Hercule Poirot’s mind. Mrs Oliver went on.

‘But petty plagiarism is the least of the accusations against her. What is really interesting are the speculations about where she got her fortune! Inheritance, she’s always claimed– but recent gossip is that she’s a first-class thief. Anyone who can claim someone else’s story idea can do a spot of embezzlement or robbery, too, don’t you think?’

Poirot had no ready reply to this singular pronouncement.

‘I’m sure I never told Miss Holt my idea myself,’ Mrs Oliver continued vaguely. ‘I never converse with her if I can help it. It must have been someone else in the Detection Club I told who then went and ratted to Miss Holt. And my woman’s intuition tells me,’ she added dramatically, ‘that whoever it was did it purposefully, to cheat me. I’m sure of it.’ 

‘Your woman’s...?’

‘Intuition, Monsieur Poirot! That is what is needed in nine out of ten investigations. Now, if a _woman_ were head of Scotland Yard–’

Poirot was spared an earnest tirade on this favourite subject of Mrs Oliver’s by a newcomer poking her head around the corner. A lady of thirty-odd with dark, bobbed hair and a cheerful expression met their eyes.

‘Ariadne dear? I thought that was you I heard. Come out here– they say the room will be open soon.’

Mrs Oliver and Poirot joined her in the main corridor, and introductions were made.

‘Mrs Maurine Grant– M. Hercule Poirot. The great detective, you know. Maurine is an old friend of mine.’

Mrs Grant surveyed Poirot with friendly but shrewd brown eyes.

‘Of course, monsieur, you’re giving the speech today. What good luck for us. You must tell us all about your cases over lunch. But what were you and Ariadne discussing so secretively back there?’ 

Mrs Oliver said: ‘We’d just been swapping unpleasant anecdotes about Leona Holt.’

‘Alas, madame, that I have distressed your mind on this most auspicious occasion. I crave your pardon.’ 

‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Half the fun of Detection Club gatherings is commiseration. If I get a good lunch out of the afternoon, that will be quite enough for me. Now, Maurine, which is the room we want?’ 

They passed together down the decoratively-lighted corridor in the direction of the foyer. The sounds of socialising grew nearer. Book-clutchers began to appear here and there.

Mrs Grant led her companions on, calling over her shoulder. ‘I can see Mr Gainsbrooke across the way. It looks like he’s found his brandy, that should please him. No, Ariadne dear, it’s over this way.’ 

Almost at once, attention was rivetted upon Mrs Oliver by a fresh-faced young man wielding a book. 

‘Ariadne Oliver?’ he queried, hurrying over. ‘You are Ariadne Oliver?’ 

Hercule Poirot alone was close enough to hear the noise of resigned discontent emanating from Mrs Oliver. 

‘Yes– I am,’ she replied, smiling unconvincingly. 

‘Will you sign my book for me, Mrs Oliver? I have been reading your books for years, years! You are a very great woman.’ 

‘How very kind of you to say,’ said Mrs Oliver bleakly. 

She hoisted her bulky handbag over to Hercule Poirot in a sudden gesture and took the pen and book from the young man. Poirot gazed down at his burden to see a rumpled handkerchief, crumpled bits of paper, and another apple core threatening to pour out of the top of the bag. He winced. 

Mrs Oliver thrust the book back at her admirer as though it burned her. After retrieving the offending bag from Poirot with a word of thanks, she proceeded to introduce the wide-eyed young man to Maurine Grant as one of the great up-and-coming writers in the _noir_ genre. Poirot thought there was a trace of malice in the gesture. Mrs Grant in her turn was obliged to sign a little autograph notebook.

This procedure completed, Maurine Grant retrieved her own bag from Poirot and steered her companions firmly in the direction of a room at the other end of the foyer. A placard bearing the inscription INVITED GUESTS ONLY stood outside the door.

Mrs Grant said: ‘You will join our table for lunch, M. Poirot? Sir Geoffrey Nolan will be with us– you may have heard of his Inspector Kendall stories. Also Miss Paula Antonetti, the literary critic. She’s rather a pet.’ 

‘I should be enchanted, madame.’ 

‘The four of us have been in the habit of sticking together at gatherings of this kind,’ added Mrs Oliver, a little pointedly. 

‘Gainsbrooke keeps an open bar for us always, even for the luncheons,’ said Mrs Grant indulgently. ‘He’s always got his early brandy. I wouldn’t mind a little white wine myself; it feels like that kind of day. Can I get you something while I’m there, M. Poirot? Whisky and soda? Brandy?’ 

‘Don’t be silly, Maurine,’ interposed Mrs Oliver. ‘If M. Poirot wants anything, I’ll wager it’s a _crème de menthe.’_

Hercule Poirot’s eyes went wide in amazement. But he had no time to reply, for the members of the Detection Club and their invited guests had begun their surge toward the door. Mrs Oliver sailed forward, Poirot following thoughtfully in her wake.

* * * * * 

The room was a large and stately one. There were no windows, but the high vaulted ceiling and the abundance of twinkling crystal created a wonderfully luminescent effect. Several round tables were placed strategically throughout the area. A raised platform and podium at one end of the room suggested the location where Poirot was, presumably, to present his speech. 

‘A magnificent room,’ said the detective as he and Mrs Oliver settled themselves at a table near the front. 

‘It is rather lovely,’ agreed Mrs Oliver. ‘This place take great pride in their lighting, I believe. “The Thousand Lanterns”! They can dim the room down and do all sorts of clever things– create a night sky effect, for instance, and in the middle of the afternoon.’

‘I must ask,’ said Poirot with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘why you suggested to Mme Grant that I might want a _crème de menthe_. It was a comment of unerring accuracy. Never before has a new acquaintance of mine so predicted my preference in drinks.’ 

‘I don’t really know,’ answered Mrs Oliver. ‘It just seemed to be the right thing. You wouldn’t look right tossing back a whisky and soda. No, a small glass, very neat– and it would match the colour of your eyes well.’ 

‘For my part,’ Poirot replied, ‘I would be inclined to believe that you, madame, do not often take alcoholic beverage.’ 

‘As a matter of fact you’re right there.’ She lifted a pitcher of lemonade from the table and filled her glass. ‘I’ve never been too fond of the taste. How did you figure that, monsieur?’

‘Mme Maurine Grant is an old friend of yours, you say. She proposes to get herself a drink and asks what I would like. But she does not ask you.’ 

‘The simple deduction,’ said Mrs Oliver. She sipped from her glass. ‘Men are so linear in their thought processes. My maddening Sven Hjerson is just the same. Still, it gets results.’

‘Ah, but you, too, have made an accurate deduction. You are sensitive to atmosphere,’ said Poirot, with an expressive gesture, indicating the sparkling room around him. ‘Your subconscious mind, it retains the impressions, and forms ideas thus. It is a gift that can be turned to great purpose– when allied with order and method.’ 

He cast a skeptical glance at Mrs Oliver’s disreputable handbag. _Order and method_ , he thought, did not seem to be the authoress’s strong points. 

‘A woman’s intuition,’ said Mrs Oliver, reverting to her former theme, and wiping away a small piece of apple that had fallen upon her orange-printed sleeve. ‘Here comes Maurine with the rest of our table.’ 

* * * * * 

Two newcomers approached with Mrs Grant.

Sir Geoffrey Nolan was tall and slim, with dark burning eyes and an inquisitive demeanour. He bowed to Poirot. 

‘Dashed impressive restaurant,’ he said in an unexpectedly soft and musical voice. He seated himself next to Mrs Oliver. ‘Or would be, if they got their schedules straight. Is the food really good?’ 

Miss Antonetti said: ‘Indeed!’ and sat down heavily. She was a vivacious blonde with an impulsive temperament. Like Poirot, she carried a black notebook, which she plopped down beside her on the table. 

‘It’s a very poetical setting,’ mused Nolan. ‘The Thousand Lanterns.’ He quoted: _‘The night has a thousand eyes / And the day but one / Yet the light of the bright world dies / With the dying sun.’_

‘Sir Geoffrey,’ laughed Miss Antonetti, ‘is forever quoting verse. You may know, M. Poirot, the trend of the macabre nursery rhyme in modern detective fiction. It’s owed almost entirely to his Inspector Kendall series, I believe. I will _never_ look at a spider the same way again after reading–’ 

‘Don’t let’s talk macabre, not at lunch,’ rejoined Nolan. ‘And Inspector Kendall can go hang. He’s been stuck on a case for four months and can’t get the blasted thing resolved. My publisher’s been giving me hell. Ah, here’s the soup.’

Five steaming bowls of consommé appeared at the table. The occupants set to with gusto.

Maurine Grant said: 

‘Monsieur Poirot, I am sure, would never be stuck on a case for four months.’

‘It is not common, madame– but it has happened. Certain criminals, they are very careful. Sometimes there is very little trail to go upon. There is only gossip, or rumours.’

‘You mean,’ said Mrs Grant, ‘like those fascinating stories about Leona Holt.’

‘Madame?’ 

‘All sorts of stories are flying around about her,’ continued Mrs Grant with relish. ‘People are saying that she didn’t inherit her fortune from Lord Fitzhugh after all. She’s said to have helped her last fiancé embezzle millions from his company.’ 

‘Rubbish,’ said Sir Geoffrey. ‘A thing like that would have been proved if it were true.’

Unruffled, Mrs Grant continued: ‘And there were the pearls that had gone missing at Gainsbrooke’s New Year’s Eve party– you mark my words. Miss Holt is a professional!’ 

‘At very least,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘she’s an opportunist. I don’t know about jewel heists. But she listens and makes use of what she hears.’ 

Poirot raised his eyes from his soup and looked across the room. Miss Holt was seated at table with Mr. Gainsbrooke and a few other distinguished-looking persons. 

‘Do you still believe that Miss Holt overheard one of your story ideas and used it herself?’ said Sir Geoffrey. ‘Seems unlikely to me.’ He reddened slightly. 

‘Oh, you have a soft spot for her,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘But I _know_ , I tell you. And I’m not the only one she has “borrowed” from. But the thing can’t be proved. We all talk about ideas and story plans all the time. But somehow, that one particular idea made its way to her ears.’ 

Poirot said with a smile, ‘I perceive that the four of you here frequently discuss the shop with each other.’ 

Miss Antonetti said: ‘Why, certainly, M. Poirot. That is to say– I don’t have any writing ideas to share, as a humble critic– but I always enjoy listening in.’ 

‘It might do some good,’ grumbled Mrs Oliver, still preoccupied with her woes, ‘if any of you could have remembered my mentioning that idea to you in the first place.’ 

‘You do have so _many_ ideas, Ariadne dear,’ said Mrs Grant. ‘But I don’t remember hearing about that one. The one I thought had so much promise was about the nursery governess and her rich relations–’ 

An earnest discussion about plot points ensued between the two women. Poirot shifted his attention to Mr Nolan and Miss Antonetti just as the duck was served. 

‘I’m really looking forward to your little speech, monsieur,’ said the lady between mouthfuls. ‘These literary events become just a teeny bit predictable. There’s talk and good food, and there’s the loyal readers that wait in the corridors– or sometimes manage to get in here by special permission. I can see a little table-ful of them gawking around back there–’ 

She pointed to a table of more modestly-attired young women. One of them, a fair-haired girl in blue, appeared to be doodling dreamily onto a serviette while the others laughed and chattered. 

‘–And there’s a typical sort of flowery fanfare if someone is being honoured or awarded.’

‘For myself,’ interjected Nolan, ‘I was rather surprised they’d gotten you to come, monsieur. Are you and Mrs Oliver... great friends?’ 

His tone was light, but Poirot sensed something like skepticism in his words. Or was it a faint disapproval? 

‘We met for the first time today,’ said Poirot, wiping his fingers carefully on a square of linen. He retrieved the two novels and his black notebook from where he had deposited them on the table, looking at their covers thoughtfully. Mrs Grant, he now noticed, was making a scribble or two onto a piece of notepaper that lay beside her plate. 

‘Well,’ said Nolan, following his glance, ‘I am surprised to learn you read detective fiction, I must say. Thought it might be a bit farfetched for you, what?’ 

Poirot shrugged and aligned his silverware carefully beside his plate. The other man went on hesitantly, lowering his voice. 

‘Mrs Oliver is a little farfetched altogether,’ he murmured. ‘Miss Holt is harmless enough.’ 

Miss Antonetti gave an incredulous little cough, earning a glare from the novelist.

‘A lot of fanciful rumour-mongering,’ he said sharply. ‘Embezzlements and jewel heists!’

‘As I was saying,’ continued Miss Antonetti, ‘nothing very extraordinary happens at these little gatherings.’ Her eyes flitted for just a moment to Ruben Gainsbrooke’s table before coming to rest again on Hercule Poirot. ‘But I wish– yes, I wish, M. Poirot, that you would do something very extraordinary.’ 

* * * * * 

Now that lunch was over, the coffee was being served. Occupants of the glittering room made free to move about and socialise with neighbouring participants. Small dishes with an assortment of desserts were placed on the tables by assiduous waiters.

Mrs Oliver, who had remained at table with Poirot, helped herself to another apple which reposed on one such dish. 

‘You get all sorts at these events,’ she said. ‘I fuss about the crowds a bit, but I’m glad it’s not _only_ writers.’ 

Poirot examined the dish in turn and found that it also contained _petit-fours_. Helping himself to one of these, he said: 

‘It is true for investigation as well– the homogeny, it is not good. It is like what we spoke about at the beginning of lunch, madame. Between two very different personalities and preferences, a problem can be solved, a task brought to fulfilment. As your English nursery rhyme says: 

_Jack Sprat could eat no fat._  
_His wife could eat no lean._  
_And so between them both, you see,_  
_They licked the platter clean.'_

‘You sound like Sir Geoffrey Nolan,’ chuckled Mrs Oliver, ‘quoting nursery rhymes.’

‘I work with my little grey cells, with method and order. But coming alongside others, with those who approach the picture differently, certain insights can be gained. My old friend Hastings– he had an imagination most fertile, but also a simplicity of outlook that stood in stark contrast to my own. Often, but often, he surprised me with an observation of the most obvious that resulted in illuminating clarity. One would not have thought it! But it takes all kinds, as you English say. One soon learns that in interviewing witnesses. The mosaic, it is not complete without the varieties of colour.’ 

They fell silent for a few minutes.

‘Madame, is there anyone else– besides those at our table– with whom you are in the habit of discussing your story ideas?’

‘Still thinking about that, are you? Well, with any number of people in the Detection Club,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘But those three you’ve just met are the ones I chat with the most. And Ruben Gainsbrooke, I’ll often go over ideas and plans with him. Good gracious, you don’t believe that someone at our own luncheon table is a mole.’

‘I do not say deliberately– as you say, talk gets around. But you say that your intuition tells you that it was a deliberate act of betrayal on someone’s part.’

‘I wouldn’t like to think it of any of them,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘The whole thing is an unpleasant prospect. Let’s talk about something else. What do you have in mind for your speech? Are you to discuss your cases? Will you give us all some startling insights into criminology?’ 

Poirot gestured with his personal stack of books. ‘Preparatory for the event, I have been reading some of your novels, madame–’ 

Mrs Oliver’s face fell. ‘Don’t tell me you’re only speaking about my novels. I know them already. But from someone with a reputation such as yours, I was rather hoping for something frightfully _interesting.’_

‘And something interesting has arisen, madame. Something I did not expect. You understand the value of the little idea, madame– it is your stock in trade. They are valuable, the little ideas, in more ways than one. And you give to me these ideas– it is extraordinary. I should like more confirmation before the afternoon is complete. But I digress. Do not concern yourself about the speech to come. You see– Hercule Poirot,’ he added grandiloquently, ‘is always interesting.’

* * * * * 

‘Mademoiselle, have you dropped your handkerchief?’

A young lady in blue, recognisable as belonging to the party from the back table, turned in surprise to the little man, who was holding out to her a folded piece of linen.

‘Oh!’ She took it and examined it. ‘I don’t think this is mine– it looks very much like it, however.’ 

In vain, she shuffled the contents of her large blue handbag. 

‘I’m the most disorganised person ever to live. No, I don’t think that handkerchief is mine.’ 

She abandoned her search and looked at the man with greater interest.

‘You are Hercule Poirot, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Someone told me you would be here.’

He bowed. 

‘I’m Miss Davis,’ she said. 

‘You are a writer?’ 

She blushed. ‘Well– hardly, monsieur. I’m just an amateur, very small fry. But I was lucky enough to get in today because of my connections with a certain typing bureau.’

‘Ah yes, I gathered as much. Forgive me– I am inclined to overhear things.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Miss Davis with a light laugh. ‘In a place like this, one can hardly help it.’ 

Poirot bowed again and took his departure, smiling to himself.

‘An old cliché,’ he thought to himself. ‘The dropped handkerchief. Quite amazing, what the handkerchief can still reveal in the criminal investigation.’

His sharp eyes scanned the room until they spotted Leona Holt and Mr Gainsbrooke deep in conversation. They stood by the entrance doors, wine glasses in hand, looking elegant and aloof. Poirot approached them shamelessly. He adopted his most foreign aspect.

‘Monsieur, you have my greatest approval,’ he beamed. ‘A great success, the little party, _n’est-ce pas?’_

‘Not bad, not bad.’ Gainsbrooke had looked slightly startled, but he swallowed the rest of the contents of his glass and seemed to recover himself. ‘May I introduce, er–’

Poirot spoke quickly. _‘Pardon,_ monsieur– the lady and I became acquainted earlier.’ He beamed placidly at Miss Holt, who returned a wan smile. 

‘Such a splendid group,’ said Poirot, gesticulating. ‘I have visited with the novelists, and the writers of opinion, and even some young writers who have never had a thing in print.’

‘There do tend to be a number of amateurs lurking about at these things,’ said Miss Holt dismissively. 

Poirot went on enthusiastically. ‘I met a Miss Davis just now– that girl, in blue.’ He pointed. ‘She had been doodling all through lunch, quite charming. Just now she was speaking to me in confidence about her stories. What imagination, what genius she displays! As you say, she is nobody, nobody at all. But perhaps someday, Miss Davis will be known. I do hope so.’

Excusing himself with a stated intention to visit the bar, Poirot removed himself. He happened to catch a whispered word from Leona Holt as he was retreating. 

_‘Gaga...’_

Once more, Hercule Poirot smiled to himself. He was pleased with the afternoon’s progress.

* * * * *

In another moment, Poirot encountered Maurine Grant seated at a little table by herself. It was, he noted, very conveniently situated beside the bar. Another glass of wine sat before her, and she seemed to be thinking abstractedly. She gave a sudden start upon noticing Poirot before her.

‘Oh, it’s you, monsieur,’ she said. 

‘It is a lonely spot, this table,’ he observed. 

‘Is it? I don’t find it so. Many people come by the bar. Lots of conversation. Mr Freeman, the proprietor, was just by here. That’s him, talking to that very sympathetic waiter. Rickard, he’s called. Dashing, isn’t he?’ She gestured to the pair of men a few tables away, who were apparently settling some business with the diners.

She took a long draught from her glass.

‘You do not seem happy, madame,’ said Poirot.

Maurine Grant shrugged. 

‘Some people– seem to have everything,’ she began.

Poirot had heard many conversations that began this way. He settled himself into the seat opposite and composed himself to listen. 

‘Writing isn’t a lucrative career, really. One needs something to fall back on. You see, it is such dreadfully hard work to _think.’_

 _‘Mais oui_ , I understand that,’ said Poirot. ‘So many believe it is easy, but it is not so. It is the hardest work in the world.’ 

‘Dear Ariadne may complain about the work of writing. But it comes so terribly _easy_ to her. She has the most fertile imagination and can afford to pick and choose. Wild schemes just fall into her lap like ripe fruit from a tree.’

‘Whereas, other writers... they must take up the spear and go hunting?’

‘Yes, that’s just it! How picturesquely you put it. Oh, Mr Rickard!’ she said suddenly as the handsome young waiter passed by. _‘Would_ you be so kind?’ 

The obliging young Rickard dealt with Mrs Grant’s drink order with polite deference. This task fulfilled, he discreetly requested a word with the detective. The two of them moved away from the bar, leaving the wistful lady to her third glass of wine. 

‘Will you be ready in ten minutes’ time, Mr Poirot?’ said Rickard. ‘I’ve set up the microphone in the front.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the other man. He extracted his large pocket watch and looked at it. Yes, there would be time...

The attendant lingered. ‘If I may say, sir,’ he began, and his voice gave a slight stammer, ‘I’ve heard of you. And I think it’s great luck to be able to hear you give a lecture here. I have to admit, I don’t go in much for crime writers. But a real live detective’s different.’

A sympathetic young man, thought Poirot, surveying him. Yes, exactly the sort of man...

‘May I ask you something, monsieur? It is a beautiful room, this. The artistic lighting, it changes with a subtle nuance. The music drifts in from nowhere as if by magic. Who is responsible for arranging such a pleasing ambiance?’ 

The young man swelled with pride. ‘For these events, monsieur, I take care of most things myself. Mr Freeman’s taught me all the apparatus.’ 

‘I felicitate you,’ said Poirot with a little bow. ‘And, about my little lecture– I like to give a certain effect, you understand. Perhaps you will be able to help me.’

* * * * * 

Several minutes later, Mrs Oliver’s friends had drifted back to their table. Poirot was among them. 

‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that it is about time for me to take the stage, as you say.’

Mrs Oliver held out Poirot’s black notebook. ‘Monsieur– don’t forget your notes for the speech.’ 

‘Ah– it is droll, that!’ The detective smiled upon his notebook in a curious manner. ‘I do not think I shall need it now, madame.’ 

‘But– how is that?’

Poirot gestured with his hand. ‘It all comes back to what you said to me when we first met.’

‘Well, what did I say?’

‘You said that _writing is so different from oratory._ Therein you will find the solution to all your difficulties.’ 

As he left them, Sir Geoffrey Nolan gave a little frown. 

‘Peculiar sort of chap, isn’t he?’ he said.

‘Yes indeed,’ said Mrs Oliver. She peered after him curiously. ‘Peculiar– but he’s no fool. I wonder...’

* * * * * 

Poirot beamed out upon his audience. The room was now was quite dark, and the guests seemed to glitter before him in the twinkling glow of the dining hall. 

_‘Mesdames et monsieurs,’_ he began. ‘I thank you for the most kind invitation. Never before have I attended such an event. I am reminded, on a day like today, of certain experiences in Belgium long ago...’

His voice droned on– soothing, soporific. The words seemed strangely inconsequential and uninteresting. 

Miss Antonetti twisted her hands together and looked disappointed. Mr Nolan blinked a little and stifled a yawn. Miss Leona Holt shifted position. Mr Gainsbrooke seemed in imminent danger of falling asleep.

Mrs Oliver tugged at her earlobe. That strange little man seemed to be making quite a hash of this, she thought. What exactly was he up to?

‘...and our esteemed Madame Oliver, whom we honour today. It is indeed a privilege to have the acquaintance of such a talented lady.’

He raised his voice slightly.

‘It was three years ago now that I received a kind letter from Madame Oliver, in which she so charmingly recounted the plot of a story she planned to write someday. A classic double-bluff, featuring a holster of a strange and irregular shape, and the confectioner’s assistant with the ex-soldier–’ 

At that moment, pandemonium broke loose.

* * * * * 

It began with a loud chorus of gasps. Poirot gesticulated, in apparent confusion, with the novel in his hand. Suddenly, a multitude of lights lit up in the back of the room, illuminating the tables. And from one table Leona Holt sprang to her feet. She held in her hands a large blue handbag.

Miss Davis, who occupied the same table, jumped up as well.

‘That’s– that’s mine!’ she cried.

With a little cry, Leona Holt dropped the bag and fairly flew from the room.

Everyone turned to stare again at Hercule Poirot. He seemed politely bemused.

‘Er– _pardon, mesdames et monsieurs_ – I believe they are having some little difficulty with the lighting?’ 

The entire room responded by conversing loudly all at once. 

* * * * * 

Conversations were loud and carrying. Not only had Leona Holt overheard and used Mrs Oliver’s story idea, but she was a kleptomaniac! She had built up her vast fortune, not from inheritance as it was supposed, but on handbags! Gentlemen felt for their wallets and ladies clutched at their throats to reassure themselves of the presence of their jewels... 

‘Hercule Poirot!’ 

The orange-printed galleon that was Ariadne Oliver caught hold of Poirot as soon as the bewildered luncheon attendants began to disperse from the room. Every one of them (with the exception of the little Belgian) seemed in utter shock.

‘Madame?’ replied Poirot serenely.

‘I am getting a cab this minute and you are going to tell me what just happened!’

She was as good as her word. In less than two minutes, they were seated in the back of a London cab with directions to a block of flats. 

‘Now,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘what on earth did you mean by saying in your speech that I had written to you about my stolen story idea three years ago? I only got that idea about a year ago.’

Poirot was the picture of innocence. ‘Alas, madame, I must have been mistaken on that point.’ 

‘Mistaken my foot! You lied to a roomful of people to embarrass Leona Holt about it. But you were just taking my word for it about my claim to that story idea.’ 

Poirot shook his head.

‘I had no doubt that you were speaking the truth, madame. As soon as I met Miss Holt and yourself, I formed an estimate of your characters. You were not the type to invent misfortune to attract attention, or to claim the ideas of another as your own. But Miss Holt is the sort that craves attention, and is willing to lie and to steal to get it. She has few natural faculties of her own for originality. All the same, I did not risk embarrassing her needlessly. Once the facts were before me, it was a simple matter to arrange for her to be caught in the act.’

Mrs Oliver said: ‘But caught in the act of purse-snatching? I don’t understand.’

‘No, no, Miss Holt is not a purse-snatcher. Nor is she, I am certain, an embezzler, nor a jewel thief.’ 

‘Then why–’ 

‘You thought, madame, that your idea had reached Leona Holt’s ears by means of gossip. You suspected someone at our table of conniving at a betrayal. But it was not so.’

He pointed to Mrs Oliver’s handbag. 

‘When you signed an autograph for the young man before the luncheon, you passed your handbag over to me without thinking. Then Mme Grant took a turn signing autographs, and she also deposited her bag with me for a moment or two. It seems that when it comes to signing autographs, authors become a bit careless about who has charge of their personal effects.’

‘Well, what of it?’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Certainly I’ve never had money stolen that way. It’s a bit overflowing with litter, I grant you, but there’s nothing particularly _valuable_ in there.’

‘No, madame?’ 

Poirot plucked a couple of crumpled papers balanced near the top of Mrs Oliver’s bag and handed them to her. ‘What are these, then?’ 

Mrs Oliver frowned as she took the papers and unfolded them. ‘Oh, just rubbish, you know. Probably a shopping list or some such– oh!’ Her face registered shock. 

‘Not a shopping list, I think,’ said Poirot. 

‘They’re notes I scribbled down earlier today, after I’d popped over to The Nesting Wren to telephone here,’ said Mrs Oliver in some amazement. ‘I’d gotten a brainwave for a bit of a new Sven Hjerson plot that had been puzzling me. Do you– do you mean–?’

‘Yes indeed. It was not through _oratory_ that the story idea passed to Mlle Holt via the rumour mill. It was through _writing_. A scrap of paper which she had previously purloined from your handbag. It is a process she had undergone several times.’

‘How on earth did you guess at such a thing?’

‘I suspected the truth when I observed your friend, Mme Grant, scribbling on a scrap of paper at our table. At first, I suspected her of noting down your ideas–’

‘You don’t mean to say you suspected Maurine! Never. She’s one of my closest friends.’

‘All the same, madame, she had just been listening most assiduously to your conversation about your writing. Your friendship with her made her the most likely to have heard and retained your story idea. And I spoke with her alone– she seemed most envious of the scope of your imagination.’ 

‘Poor Maurine,’ said Mrs Oliver with sympathy. ‘She’s had an uphill battle with her writing. But when she gets the ball rolling at last, she’s quite terrific. Over-thinks the process a little, but she’ll learn.’ 

She paused. ‘What happened with the lighting at the restaurant? Is that your idea of dramatic flair? How did you know–’ 

Poirot held up a hand.

‘There was another writer at the luncheon I noticed who doodled at table– the young Miss Davis. With a mind to entrap Leona Holt, I set out to speak to this young lady in blue. She was unknown, unpublished. Miss Davis, like yourself, had a handbag of generous proportions and ample content. That was all I needed to know.

‘I then went directly to Mademoiselle Holt and spoke to her about the “brilliant young writer” I had encountered. I represented Miss Davis as someone who had spent much of the luncheon taking notes and bringing forth ideas of great genius– and also as someone who was unknown and fairly reserved. This was exactly the sort of person whose story ideas our unscrupulous Leona Holt would seek after. It had been somewhat risky for Leona Holt to use your idea. But how very safe to steal story plans from a young nobody, who would never suppose that similarities between her own ideas and an established author’s published work was anything but mere coincidence.’

‘How perfectly revolting!’ exclaimed Mrs Oliver. But she looked fascinated.

‘As you say,’ said Poirot. ‘To steal ideas, creative thoughts from a typist with the writing aspirations– the work of the little grey cells– to me, it seems worse than the mere jewel robbery or embezzlement. But it can also be harder to prove. My hope was to catch Mademoiselle Holt in the act of rummaging in the handbag.’

‘So your little light charade–’

Poirot interjected solemnly: _‘The night has a thousand eyes / And the day but one / Yet the light of the bright world dies / With the dying sun.’_ That is the verse M. Nolan quoted about The Thousand Lanterns. If you are a thief who wishes to avoid detection, it is unwise to conduct business under the many watchful eyes of The Thousand Lanterns. There are also the two eyes of Hercule Poirot with which to reckon!

‘I arranged with young Rickard, an employee of the establishment, to have my little effect with the lighting. There are times when, upon a stage, one cannot clearly see one’s audience. Rickard’s adjustments ensured that I would be able to clearly see the guests even as far as the very back of the room. Leona Holt had taken a seat at Miss Davis’ table– most unusual, it would seem, to one of her social snobbery– but not unusual if she had intentions with that handbag! Very good... 

‘Instead of my prepared speech, I talked a good deal of “the waffle,” as you say, until I saw Leona Holt abstract Miss Davis’ handbag. Then I sprung the news to everyone that I had heard of your story idea some years ago– not strictly true, as you say– but it had its effect. I gave the signal to Rickard, and he shone the spotlight on the back table. _Voilà!’_

Mrs Oliver shook her head, impressed.

‘That,’ she said, ‘was the most outlandish thing I have ever seen happen at a gathering of the Detection Club. I shall never forget the look on Miss Holt’s face when she was caught!’

‘I do not think,’ said Poirot, ‘that she ever realised that I was a celebrated detective. When we first met, she clearly did not recognise me. And when the two of us were speaking with M. Gainsbrooke later, I interrupted the gentleman before he could introduce me as the great, the unique Poirot, invincible in the tracking of criminals. It was better that she should be off her guard.’ 

‘Well, monsieur,’ said Mrs Oliver, concealing a smile, ‘I am _very_ much obliged to you. I really had no idea that you proposed to track down a plagiarist this afternoon.’

Poirot raised his eyebrows. 

‘You knew precisely, madame! Do you think that I did not notice your unspoken request? How you set out to pique my interest and challenge me, by speaking of _unbeatable crime?_ How you were so careful to mention that _the four of you_ always met and exchanged conversation at these gatherings? You suspected either Sir Geoffrey or Miss Antonetti, and set me on the trail to discover the culprit. There is no denying it.’

Mrs Oliver burst into a laugh.

‘You’ve been an awfully good sport, monsieur,’ she said at last. ‘I feel I owe you a proper fee for your efforts of the day.’

 _‘Pas du tout,’_ said Poirot gallantly.

**Author's Note:**

> The first we see of Ariadne Oliver-- in the Poirot canon, anyway-- is in Christie's novel _Cards on the Table_. In that story, Poirot meets Mrs Oliver (much to his surprise) at the dinner party of Mr Shaitana. 'She greeted Poirot, whom she had met before at a literary dinner, in an agreeable bass voice."
> 
> The character of Maurine Grant is Christie's own. She appears (in passing) in _Elephants Can Remember_ as a friend of Mrs Oliver's, spotted at the literary luncheon they are both attending. She is described as "great fun." :) 
> 
> I wrote this story as a way to explain how Mrs Oliver and Poirot met and why they are inclined to be sympathetic in _Cards on the Table_. Perhaps Poirot had helped Mrs Oliver with a mystery of her own? I've also been consistently impressed in the Ariadne Oliver novels at just how well the two friends seem to know each other's likes and dislikes pertaining to food and drink. So I made this a hallmark of their very first meeting.
> 
> This is the first in a series of Ariadne Oliver stories I hope to create that are based on nursery rhymes. :) This title, "A Literary Luncheon," also happens to be the title of the first chapter of Elephants Can Remember, a Poirot novel with Mrs Oliver (I didn't consciously plan that, but I'm okay with it).


End file.
